They came to him, and held him, understanding.
Gjerdrum had loved his Queen more than life itself, though not with the love of a man for a woman. His was the love of a knight of the old romances for his sovereign, for his infallible Crown.
And Ragnar brought him the love of a forgiving son.
"Give me strength," said Ragnarson. "Help me. They've taken everything from me. Everything but you. And hatred. Stand with me, Ragnar. Don't let hate eat me. Don't let me destroy me."
He had to live, to be strong. Kavelin depended on him. Ravelin. Damnable Kavelin.
"I will, Father. I will."
TWELVE: The Stranger in Hammerfest
Hammerfest was a storybook town in a storybook land cozy with storybook people. Plump blonde girls with ribboned braids, rosy cheeks, and ready smiles tripped up and down the snowy streets. Tall young men hurried from one picturesque shop to another in pursuit of the business of their apprentice-ships, yet were never so hurried that they hadn't time to welcome a stranger. Laughing children sped down the main street on sleds with barrel staves for runners. Their dogs yapped and floundered after them.
The thin man in the dark cloak stood taking it in for a time. He ignored the nibbling of a wind far colder than any of his homeland. It was warmer than those he had endured the past few months.
Tall, steep-roofed houses crowded and hung over the rising, twisting street, yet he didn't feel as confined as he had in towns less densely built. There was a warm friendliness to Hammerfest, a family feeling, as though the houses were cuddling from love, not necessity.
His gaze lingered on the smoke rising from a tall stone chimney topped by a rack where storks nested in summer. He watched the vapors rise till they passed between himself and a small, crumbling fortress atop the hill the town climbed. Peace had reigned here for a generation. The brutal vicissitudes of Trolledyngjan politics had passed Hammerfest by.
A sled whipped past, carrying a brace of screaming youngsters. The dark man leapt an instant before it could hit him, slipped, fell. The snow's cold kiss burned his cheek.
"They don't realize, so I'll apologize for them."
A pair of shaggy boots entered his vision, attached to pillars of legs. A huge, grizzled man offered a hand. He accepted.
"Thank you. No harm done." He spoke the language well. "Children will be children. Let them enjoy while they can."
"Ah, indeed. Too soon we grow old, eh? Yet, isn't it true that all of us will be what we will be?"
The man in the dark clothing looked at him oddly. "I mean, we must be what our age, sex, station, and acquaintances demand."
"Maybe...." A beer hall philosopher? Here? "What're you driving at?" He shivered in a gust.
"Nothing. Don't mind me. Everybody says I think too much, and say it. For a constable. You should get heavier clothing. Ander Sigurdson could outfit you. That all you wore coming north?"
The stranger nodded. This was a real fountain of questions. Nor was he as full of good-to-see-you as the others.
"Let's get you up to the alehouse, then. You're cold. You'll want something warming. A bite, too, by the look of you." He danced lightly as a sled whipped past.
The stranger noted his deftness. This would be a dangerous man. He was strong and quick.
"Name's Bors Olagson. Constable hereabouts. Boring job, what with nothing ever happening."
"I took you for a smith." The stranger refused the bait. "Really? Only hammer I ever swung was a war hammer, back in my younger days. Reeved out of Tonderhofn a few summers, back when. That's why they picked me for this job. But it's just a hobby, really. Don't even pay. My true profession is innkeeper. I own the alehouse. Bought with my share of the plunder."
They passed several houses and shops before he probed again. "And who would you be?"
"Rasher. Elfis Rasher. Factor for Darnalin, of the Bedelian League. Our syndics are considering increasing profits by bypassing the Iwa Skolovdans in the fur trade. I've begun to doubt our chances. I didn't prepare well. As you noticed by my outfit."
"And you came alone? Without so much as a pack?" "No. I survived. The Kratchnodians and rest of Trolledyngja aren't as friendly as Hammerfest."
"Indeed. Though it was worse before the Old House was restored. Here we are." He shoved a tall, heavy door. "Guro. A big stein for a new guest. The kids just knocked him into a snowbank." He grinned. "Yeah. Those were my brats."
I I I
The stranger surveyed the tavern. It was all warm browns, as homey and friendly within as the Hammerfesters were outside. He sidled to the fire.
Bors brought steins. "Well, Rasher, I admire you. I do. You're one of the survivors. Weren't always a merchant, were you?"
The questions were becoming irksome. "My home is Hellin Daimiel. I saw the El Murid wars. And I'm no countinghouse clerk. I'm a caravaneer."
"Thought so. Man of action. I miss it sometimes, till I remember drifting in a rammed dragonship with my guts hanging out on the oar bench...."
The stranger tried shifting the subject. "I was told Hammerfest was a critical fur town. That I might find men here who would be interested in making a better deal than the Iwa Skolovdans offer."
"Possibly. Those people are a gang of misers. I don't like it when they stay here. They fill the rooms and don't spend a groschen."
"When do they arrive?"
"You're ahead, if that's your idea. They're too soft to try the passes before summer. They'll be a month or two yet. But, you see, they'll bring trade goods. You've apparently lost yours."
"No real problem. A fast rider could correct that-if I find somebody interested. I'm the only foreigner in town now, then?"
The man's eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened. He wasn't much for hiding his thoughts. "Yes."
The stranger wondered why he lied. Was his man here? The trick would be to find him without bringing the town down on his head.
The best course would be to pursue his cover implacably, ignoring his urgency.
It had waited a year. It could wait a day or two more.
"Who should I see? If I can arrange something, I could get the goods through ahead of the Iwa Skolovdans. We've headquar-tered our operation at our warehouses in Itaskia...."
"You should get the frost out of your fingers first."
"I suppose. But I've lost my men and my goods. I have to recoup fast. The old boys who stay at home to tote up the profits and losses take the losses out of my pocket and put the profits in theirs."
"Oho! This's a speculative venture, then."
The stranger nodded, a quiet little smile crossing his lips.
"Gentlemen adventurers, perhaps? With the Bedelian League providing office space and letters of introduction, and you putting up the money and men?"
"Half right. I'm a League man. Sent to lead. I was supposed to get a percentage. Still can. If I find the right people, and make it back to Itaskia."
"You southerners. Hurry, hurry."
The stranger drew a coin from inside his cloak, then returned it. He searched by touch, found one which told no tales. It was an Itaskian half-crown, support for his story. "I don't know how long I'll stay. This should keep me a week."
"Six pence Itaskian, per day."
"What? Thief...."
The stranger smiled to himself. He had the better of the man for the moment.
Bors' wife brought ale and roast pork as they agreed on four pence daily. Pork! It was a difficult moment. But the stranger was accustomed to alien ways. He stifled his reaction.
"While you're making your rounds, could you ask that Ander to stop over?"
"His shop is just up the street."